


Serenade to the Fields

by Novels



Series: Reprise [5]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Fluff and Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, Meet the Family, almost established relationship, more or less, novel-verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 05:07:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20303944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Novels/pseuds/Novels
Summary: Elio and Oliver finally take some time to just enjoy each other's company, forgetting a bit about the outside world.Unfortunately, the world doesn't forget about them.Just a bit of light humor and lots of feelings, as usual. When you're in Elio's head it's pretty much impossible to avoid writing about those.This is a direct sequel ofCapriccio in B Flat Majorand will only make sense if you have read the rest ofReprise.





	Serenade to the Fields

**Author's Note:**

> Beautiful people, I must warn you that I'm just not as good at dialogues as I am at descriptions and streams of consciousness.  
It's my cross to bear.  
And yours for a tiny bit, since there's quite a lot of dialogue in this fic. Don't hate me, I've tried my best. <3
> 
> Enjoy!

Oliver was brushing his fingers along my arm, staring at me with a small smile. My head rested against his arm and I lazily placed feathery kisses on his hand every time it came close enough to my face. We had had to untangle our bodies, the room just too warm to touch as much as we would have liked. 

We were both quiet, the urgency to talk placated by our earlier promises. New York never stopped playing its soundtrack, courtesy of millions of unaware performers whose lives resonated through the open windows of Oliver's flat. Yet, just like the very best of soundtracks, it mostly went unnoticed, dictating the tempo of the action, expressing the mood of the moment without taking away the attention from the protagonists. For all intents and purposes, the flat was perfectly silent as we lay in Oliver's bed, reacquainting ourselves with each other. It felt like time was of no consequence as we exchanged light touches, soft kisses, open smiles that blossomed every time our eyes met. The room grew progressively darker as the sun began to set but we paid no heed to the evening slowly inching along. I was about to actually doze off, the weariness of my long journey and of the turmoil of emotions I went through earlier catching up with me, when Oliver's phone rang. He frowned slightly and picked up the receiver, moving to sit against the headboard as he answered.

I watched him fondly as he said hello, still staring at me with a smile. His expression turned mildly surprised as the caller spoke.

"Hey, Michael. What's up?" He listened intently, nodding slightly as his son talked. His smile dropped a bit and he looked at me apologetically. "Of course you can stay with me tonight, don't worry about it. Where are you now? Do you need me to pick you up?" I stretched next to Oliver, deducing from his side of the conversation that our peaceful moment in bed was over. I felt the tiniest pang of disappointment, but I always knew Oliver would put his children first and I realised I was perfectly OK with it. We had all the time in the world for us. I arched my back a bit, trying to get it to crack, delaying the moment I would have to get out of his bed. 

"What do you mean you're right outside?" Oliver said, and it was the ill-concealed alarm in his voice more than his words that made me turn to him. He was already half out of bed, reaching for his pants as he frantically mouthed "get dressed, get dressed!" at me with a panicked expression. 

I stumbled out of bed, legs getting tangled in the sheets as I tried not to fall on my face. I grabbed my pants and somehow managed to put them on as I ran to the living room, where the rest of my clothes were. Oh God, I silently prayed, please don't let his child find me half-naked in his father's living room. I suppressed a giggle as I got into my trousers at light speed. My shirt was all wrinkled up when I put it back on, but it would have to do. Hopefully, a teenager wouldn't pay particular attention to the state of my clothes. Oliver entered the living room the moment I finished buttoning up my shirt, himself fumbling with his. 

"Michael is coming up right now, sorry," he said as he frantically looked around for traces of what we had been doing earlier. His eyes landed on the discarded towel we had used to clean ourselves up and rushed to throw it in the bathroom.

"Grab two glasses, Elio," he shouted from the other room. "Find something to drink. Act normal!"

I actually laughed at that as I complied, rummaging through the cabinets and placing the glasses and the first bottle I found on the table. This was so not how I had imagined meeting his children would be. I threaded my fingers through my hair, trying to make it look vaguely presentable. At least my curls were always a mess. I looked at Oliver as he returned to the kitchen and rushed to fix his hair, which was looking much more dishevelled than mine. I would have laughed at his vaguely horrified expression If I hadn't been so terrified myself. I placed the quickest kiss on his lips as a form of encouragement. "Relax," I muttered, taking a seat at the kitchen table and filling our glasses to give my hands something to do. 

"I told him I was with a friend," Oliver said, giving the room another once over before he stared at me apologetically. "I think it's too early for him to know the truth."

I nodded, giving him a reassuring smile. He was right, of course. We had just found our way back to each other. It wasn't just too early for his son, it was too early for us. I bit my lip, trying to shake away the tension. 

"Is your son alright?" I asked, replaying Oliver's words over the phone in my head.

Oliver nodded, but before he could add anything more we both heard the sound of a key being turned in the lock, and Oliver walked up to the door as his son stepped into the apartment. 

I tried to suppress the sudden awareness that Oliver's son had a key to the flat and could very well have walked in on us, had he not called beforehand. I firmly decided I could freak out about things that could have been but weren't when I was alone and possibly very far away from Michael. 

Oliver was giving his son a short hug, the kind that you give almost without thinking because it is what you always do when you see each other. 

"You ok, Mike?" he asked. 

His son nodded, not quite meeting his eyes. I had a feeling that whatever had happened had more to do with teenagers being teenagers than with anything more serious.

"Yeah, I just didn't want to go back home and risk mum finding out..." 

Oliver nodded, not quite smiling but definitely not looking particularly worried for his son. He gestured towards me. "Michael, this is an old friend of mine, E--"

"Elio Perlman!" Michael exclaimed before his father could finish his sentence, his eyes opening wide as they landed on me.

I felt my eyebrows shoot up in surprise and I looked at Oliver, who seemed to be just as confused as I was.

"Uh, yes--" said Oliver, evidently quite at a loss. He looked at his son. "This is my old friend Elio Perlman. Uh, do you know him?" 

"Dad! Are you kidding me? You know Elio Perlman and you don't tell me?!" I stared at Michael with no idea what was going on. I was pretty sure I would have remembered meeting Oliver's son, and I certainly hadn't.

"Elio and I have known each other for a long time but we haven't been in touch until recently, really. How come you know him?" Oliver asked, and I could practically see him wondering whether he'd let something slip when he was still living with his children. 

Michael huffed and walked up to the piano, grabbing a score from the stack on top of the instrument. Oh, of course, I should have imagined. I recognised it even from where I was still sitting. It was one of my last pieces, and my face was literally printed all over the back of the booklet. 

"Really, dad?" 

Oliver seemed quite at a loss for words. He turned to look at me. "How could I not notice a book with your face on it in my house?" he wondered. I chuckled. 

"I wouldn't picture you going through your son's scores when you feel bored," I said with a shrug. I turned my attention to Michael, who was still clutching my composition and was staring at me in what looked like awe. I was utterly unprepared for that.

"Your father tells me you like playing piano," I said, trying not to sound absolutely awkward. Damn, I was so not prepared to talk to any teenager, not to mention Oliver's teenager. "How do you find my composition?" Michael hesitated, looking at his father for support. 

"Don't worry, Michael. Elio loves talking about music. Especially if it's his." I rolled my eyes at Oliver, but he was right. Music was my language, after all. 

"It's hard to play," Michael said, "but it is so rewarding when you manage to get all the difficult parts right. I have been working on this for almost two months. I'm still struggling with some passages, but I'm getting there. My teacher says there's a bit of everything in this piece and it's good for practicing different tempos, but really I like it because it reminds me of a sunny day spent outside." 

Right. How do you answer to a kid who has seen through your work so easily? Michael certainly had his father's perceptiveness. That, and of course his incredibly blue eyes, which at the moment were fixed on me. There was eagerness in them, as if he had so much more to say but was trying not to talk too much. I felt Oliver's eyes on me, but I kept my attention on his son. 

"You're quite right, Michael. I did write it with some beautiful sunny days spent in Italy in mind." I stood up, approaching the piano. "Would you like to play it for me?"

Michael looked terrified for a fraction of a second and I realised how stressful that could be for him. I had after all just asked him to perform a piece in front of its composer, and he didn't know me at all. But before I could backpedal, he nodded hesitantly and turned to the piano. He worried his lower lip with his teeth, a gesture I found surprisingly familiar, and placed the score on the stand. 

"I'll turn the pages for you," I told him and he nodded again, placing his fingers on the keys. He hesitated a moment, looking at me. 

"I really haven't learnt it all yet, though. I'm sorry I'm gonna mess it up."

I smiled sincerely at that. "Don't worry about it. We all make mistakes and we all have to start somewhere when we want to learn something. I'm sure people have told you this a million times before, but it's true. I'm really curious to hear how you play this. You know every pianist brings something original to a composition."

Michael gave me a small smile and turned to face the piano. His fingers flew on the keys and a familiar melody filled the flat. I risked a glance over my shoulder and my eyes met Oliver's. They were so full of love, full of gratitude. I felt overwhelmed. 

"I'll get dinner started," he said, softly, over the music. "You will stay, won't you?"

I nodded and gave him one last smile before turning my attention back to his son, who was playing my music so beautifully I was already feeling emotional. It wasn't perfect, he did struggle with some of the hardest passages, but he interpreted it with such freshness and freedom that I felt seventeen again, running in the golden fields, swimming in the pool at the villa, playing with Marzia and the others. 

As I turned the pages of the score for him, I realised he was playing it the way I would have if I had written it twenty years ago. Carefree, bold, without nostalgia. He was playing it the way I've always wanted it to sound, the way that always eluded me even as I was composing it. 

_Serenade to the Fields_ was written on memories, on the elusive impression of past emotions, on nostalgia for a time in my life I would never get back. It was the product of years of experiences, and happiness, and pain. Whenever I played it, I could not forget them, nor did I really want to. Whenever I played _Serenade_, it felt like an homage to the past.

The way Michael was playing it, it felt like a promise to the future. 

I let the last notes wash over me like droplets falling from a tree after a rainy day. 

Michael let his hands fall away from the keys and looked at me anxiously. I smiled, and I could feel the honesty of my smile reach him, in the way he mirrored it.

"Thank you, Michael," I said. "That was precious."

That was the perfect soundtrack for the rest of my life. Carefree, and bold, and without nostalgia. Because Oliver was finally with me again, and the future for once looked brighter than the past.

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, I have no idea whether they print photos of the composers on the scores, but let's just roll with it, shall we?  
As always, thank you for your comments and kudos, you inspire me to write more and more!


End file.
